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51 no one Knows How To speaK Quiet scours the sky. Unspoken for some time, words of the disappeared return to us, songs jokes wisdom warnings return to us, whole languages blurry, laughter twisted, obliterated. Tears so constant our generation assumes they’re language, drunks postholing through snow along Two street, tracking fur-bearing quarry that fed elders long ago, fed old ones remembered still by name, fed us with dreams of a future we could not imagine and here it is, we’re living it now stripped bare, not much to say. ...

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